Frost Moon (27 page)

And then, it was over. I wiped my hand clear of blood and stared down at the design, surprised: it was finished—in an hour and forty-five minutes, by the wall clock, and that’s with all the inane bantering, plus a few pauses for Alex to talk to the camera.

“That’s it,” I said.

“That’s it?” Alex asked. The director leaned in. Valentine’s eyes cracked open.

“Now, it may not work quite right at first,” I said. “The skin will be healing and, normally, the tattoo would take up to two weeks to stabilize—”

“Fair… fair enough,” Valentine said. He sounded about a thousand years old. “You—you told us—to expect as much—”

“Let me finish, you upstaging old coot,” I said gently. “It can take two weeks to stabilize,
but
we might see a little movement now.”

Valentine’s eyes shot open and he lurched forward, staring, and everyone’s eyes all zeroed in on the watch or the monitors. The two hands just sat there, frozen at twelve.

Alex stared down at my new tat, a little disappointed. “It’s not moving—”

I
on the other hand, was looking at my
real
watch, carefully timing it, charging the yin-yang in my palm. “Give it a moment,” I said. “It’s not noon yet.”

My Timex beeped twelve, and I swept my right hand over the watch on my left wrist in a glimmering shower of mana, right in front of Alex and Valentine and the cameras and everybody. And when my hand had fully passed over the design, the second hand on the watch
started moving,
keeping time as perfectly as a star-based clock could get.

“Would you look at
that,”
Valentine said, staring alternately at my wrist, then the monitor.
“Would you look at that.”

“See the motion?” I said, looking at him, at Alex, at the director. “Can you see it moving?”

“Yeah,” Alex breathed. “It’s really moving. But… backwards.”

“I know,” I said, opening the box on the stool and pulling out the piece of blessed glass that I’d prepared earlier, with the miniature blessed circle inscribed around its perimeter. I scooted the stool closer, like a stand between us, and set the glass upright in the ridge in its box. “But that’s expected. Now we’re going to transfer the design to your hand.”

“Sure,” Alex said. “But… you used all the needles. And where’s the flash—”

“Won’t need it,” I said, concentrating mana in my inking hand. Then I passed it over the clock and brought it to life.

The clock
glowed.
Everyone could see its light reflecting off the cameras, Alex’s face, Valentine’s eyes. And then… it separated from my hand and floated in the air, coming to rest gently in the center of the magical circle inscribed in the glass.

“Oh. My. Word,” Alex breathed.

My hand stung a bit—it would still need a bit of healing, though not as much as if the pigment of tattoo had remained embedded in it—but I had no time to give it more than a quick glance before moving on. It was time to give Alex his tattoo.

“With a stable tattoo, I could have just transferred this through the air,” I said. “But with a new tattoo like this one you need a stabilizing plate. Now, hold up your hand.”

“What?” Alex said, blinking as I picked up his hand gently and guided it to the back of the glass. “Oh, my, you mean this is it—”

“Yes,” I said, positioning his hand carefully. “The design will flow through the glass. That’s why I had to ink it mirror-reversed, like a stamp. Here it comes.”

Then I guided Alex’s wrist in. The tattoo glowed even more brightly, feeling the pull of virgin skin; then it detached from the glass and landed on his wrist, merging with the flesh. In moments the glow faded and the tattoo returned to normal, like it had been inked there—without the long healing period. And, after a moment, the watch hand started up, right on time, ticking out one ‘second’ for every sidereal second out of each turn of the Earth beneath the stars.

Alex stared down at his wrist, at the magical tattoo that I’d just transferred to him by purely magical means. Then, wordlessly, he proffered it to Valentine, who stared at it, eyes bugged as wide as the lens of the camera recording his reaction.

I leaned back in my chair, folded my arms, ostentatiously displaying my tattooing gun in my right hand. “Let’s see you do that, Valentine.”

31. TIME IS RUNNING OUT

I swaggered (well, limped) out into Reception, my spirits on top of the world, to find Annesthesia looking straight at the door I’d exited, worried, talking to Kring/L in hushed tones.

“I know, but they’re
filming,
,” she said. “I’m afraid if he calls
again—
“

“Who called?” I asked.

“Excuse me,” Alex said, stepping past me to hold the door for Valentine’s wheelchair. He sounded worried.

“Is the old man all right? He’s not taking this well?” I asked. Valentine slipped past me on the wheelchair, sound asleep, his breathing labored. As she passed, his nurse glared at me.

“If you knew you were going to
crush
him,” she said under her breath, “you could have waited until he was
healthy.”

I stared after her wordlessly as she and Alex wheeled Valentine out. When he was gone I said quietly, to no one in particular, “If he was that sick someone should have said—”

“Damn fool,” the director said. “It’s my fault, pushing him to get a few shots in the can in time for the early promos. If I’d known he was so weak—still, an excellent show, Miss Frost. Assuming Doctor Valentine recovers, if he can top what you did here today, I’ll eat my camera.”

“They’re
my
cameras,” the lead cameraman said, dragging out a bag of equipment.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” the director said, giving him a hand. Then, turning back to me, he added, “We’ll be in touch about the followup interview, Miss Frost.”

And I was left there, feeling like the world’s biggest heel. Somehow the thing that bothered me most was that Alex hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye—not even a curt ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Frost.’ He must be really worried about Valentine, pissed at me for winning so arrogantly—or both.

“Dakota,” Kring/L said quietly.

“What?” I said, refocusing on him and Anesthesia. “Who?”

“Someone called Wulf,” she said. Her face was terrified. “He was talking about a tattoo, but Dakota, I don’t know, this guy sounds pretty fucking
angry—
“

“Did he leave a number?” I said, pulling out my phone and texting Jinx. I felt a sting of embarrassment that I’d done a tattoo for prize money while Wulf was waiting out in the cold, and the excuse of waiting on the Marquis’s approval was growing thin.

“No,” she said.

“Well, star-sixty-nine the Marquis,” I said, thumbing rapidly: «Good news on Wulfs flash?»

“We can’t do star-sixty-nine on this system,” Annesthesia said.

“Wait a minute, I think you can get the call log,” Kring/L said, picking up the phone and jabbing at it. “You want the number—”

“No, call him and put him on speaker,” I said.

Jinx responded: «still waiting 4 marquis»

Damnit, how hard could this be? «Well, ping him,» I texted back. «Wulf is antsy.»

The phone rang, and rang, and rang. Finally Kring/L picked up the receiver and dropped it to disconnect the call. “Nothing,” he said.

“Try again. He may be using a pay phone,” I said, thumbing rapidly. «Tell him it’s urgent — Wulf has the shakes.»

«marquis != speedy gonzalez» Jinx responded.

“For the love,” I said. What did ‘!=’ even mean? «Speak English!»

The phone began ringing, and ringing, and ringing. Nothing. Just as Kring/L was reaching for the receiver, the line picked up and a haggard voice said cautiously: “Yes?”

“Rogue Unicorn Tattooing Studio,” Annesthesia said cheerily. “Please hold for—”

“Dakota Frost,” I said, picking up the receiver. “Wulf? Is this Wulf?”

There was only static on the end of the line. Then, a guarded: “Yes.”

“You called? Sorry, I was doing a tat—”

“And what of mine?” he snarled.

I swallowed. He was on edge, his voice shaking. “I’m still getting it researched—”

“I am running out of time,” he snapped. “I tire of these games, Dakota—”

“Wulf,” I said passionately, and it halted him. “I haven’t known you for a long time… but do you think
I
would game you?”

There was a long pause. “No, Dakota.”

“I am checking with the graphomancers
literally
as we speak,” I said, texting «Hurry!» into my phone. “But I would never do anything to hurt you.”

“Then why won’t you—”

“You know the tattoo is Nazi, Wulf,” I said—and Kring/L’s eyes widened.

“I know,” he said, voice quiet.

“So I have to know it’s safe. I won’t risk hurting you.” Now
both
Annesthesia and Kring/L raised their eyebrows. “I can’t just take it on faith. I
have
to
know
that it won’t cause you harm.”

“Thank you, Dakota,” he said. “I’d never hurt you either—but it’s so hard to control myself, so close to the moon. The beast wants out. It wants me to change. It’s so old now. So strong.
So
strong. I would never want to release that savage animal on you—”

“Spleen is dead,” I said. “Savaged, by an animal.”

There was even longer pause. “It wasn’t me,” he said. “It wasn’t me—”

“I didn’t say it was,” I said. I heard the panic in his voice and wished I couldn’t empathize. But I’d felt that panic of everything closing in on me, of helplessness, of realizing I wasn’t in control of anything. Still, I pushed him. I had to. “But if not you—”

“My enemies,” he snarled over the phone. “Damn them. Damn them!”

“Wulf…” I said. “Who?
Who
are your enemies?”

“The Hunters,” he said. Even now, even with me believing he didn’t kill Spleen, even knowing
Philip
believed that someone really had made trouble for him at the hospital, Wulf still came off like a conspiracy nut, with his assumed name and vaguely ascribed ‘enemies.’ “They’ve been looking so long, so long. They’re afraid of me. They never attack me directly. They just make it… difficult. Or attack my friends. Always my friends. All my friends. So I won’t let myself have any friends.”

My phone buzzed: «marquis sez: “safe, u impatient bitch”»

I sighed in relief. Finally. «Thanks Jinx, and tell him thanks!»

“I’m your friend, Wulf,” I said, as convincingly as I could muster. “I just got word from my graphomancers,
right now,
that the tattoo is safe. And I’m going to do it for you—”

“I can’t let you do that,” Wulf said. “Not if you’re a friend.”

“But you said this was important. You need—”

“That was before I knew Spleen had been murdered,” Wulf said, and I could hear him pacing. Well, I wasn’t sure I could actually hear someone pace, but his agitation came through loud and clear. “I won’t let you become a target.”

“I’m not an easy target, Wulf,” I said, reddening even as I said it. That was an obvious lie, the old bravado talking.

“The evidence says otherwise,” Wulf said.

I had nothing to say to that, so after a moment I plowed ahead: “It will take me most of the afternoon to mix the pigments and make the needles. I can do the tattoo late tonight—”

“Not
at night,” Wulf said.
“Not
after moon rise. It isn’t safe for you then.”

“Tomorrow, then,” I said. “Come to the Rogue—”

“I can’t be seen in public—”

“I
need a magic circle
, Wulf,” I said. “I cannot do it in the open.
Anything
could get in to the marks and you could end up ten times worse off than you are now.”

There was a long pause. “I will find you a circle, then, somewhere in the Underground,” Wulf said. “And if I cannot find it before nightfall—”

“The full moon is what, two nights away?” I said. “Not ‘til Sunday. You have time—”

Wulf laughed. “The moon hits zenith at two minutes to midnight tomorrow, Dakota, and it will be ninety-nine-point-six-percent full,” he said bitterly. Then his words began to speed up, tumbling over one another. “Believe me, I know. That sliver of difference between full and
not
won’t make a difference. I know the moon. The first moon of November. It’s called a ‘Frost Moon’, did you know that, Dakota Frost? The frost moon of November. The Frost Moon is always
so strong.
So strong. If I cannot find somewhere safe… somewhere safe… perhaps it is best I wait it out… wait out the Frost Moon… and hope.”

“Wulf—”

His voice tightened up again, and he regained control of himself. “I will contact you tomorrow if I find a circle. Don’t try to contact me—I can’t use this pay phone again, it may be tapped. Be safe, Dakota.”

Click. And with that, he was gone.

With me having no way to reach him, no way to find him. And time rapidly running out.

I felt safe. But for him… I felt it was not safe at all.

32. BACK TO AFRICA

“The airport Houlihan’s serves the
best
Bloody Marys,” Savannah said, pushing her glass towards me. Reluctantly, I took a sip of the blood-red pulp and raised an eyebrow: the drink was strong and refreshingly tangy.

“You’re right,” I said, passing the glass back to her. “Who knew?”

Houlihan’s was in the Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport’s atrium, a vast, round, indoor space filled with shops and restaurants. The atrium served as overflow for the staggering mess of the Atlanta security checkpoint, which fed all the passengers of the world’s busiest airport through one measly row of metal detectors. The rest of Darkrose and Savannah’s crew kept looking at the mammoth knot of passengers nervously, but Savannah was not perturbed; she just took another sip of her drink and leaned back in her chair thoughtfully.

“Surely,” she said, “we could leave her
one
guard.”

“No,” Vickman said, scratching his beard. Darkrose’s chief bodyguard always seemed to be scowling—and it was worse than normal today. “We can’t. We’re going into the lion’s den here. We need everyone.”

“I don’t think you’re even
trying
to find a way to protect Dakota,” Savannah said, eyes narrowing at him as they might at Darkrose, or Doug. Vickman wasn’t fazed.